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October 16, 2005

THANK GOD FOR NORYL WINGS

Back in my school days, I would leave the house at 8am, get on my bicycle and pedal my way through the high street, past the cinema, the cricket green and the common and up the hill towards the school. At the end of the day, after all the homework was done around 9pm, I would get back on my bike, switch the lights on and 'shack it' home. I pretty much lived at the school and did everything there except sleep. This happened for four years.

Only once did I have a problem during my two mile ride home and that was only because it was a Saturday night, I was seventeen, I'd been playing sport during the day and trying it on with the sixth form girls later that night. Half a bottle of vodka, several pints of lager and many rejections later, I was pedalling my way to my dad's house a further mile down the road. But cycling at midnight after that much alcohol is not a good idea. In fact just walking after that much alcohol is not a good idea. I was ok for the first two miles, then I began to get a bit giddy and before I knew it I was tasting ditch. Tyre still spinning in the air, I brushed down the mud and dirt from my clothes, grabbed the handlebars and aimed for what seemed to be road. Seconds later I'd hit the kerb, gone over the handlebars and found myself lying on the grassy verge staring at the stars. This continued for quite some time until I reached my dad's house but upon arrival I found the security gates had automatically locked because it was gone midnight. Usually I would have typed in the code and ambled through, but not this time OOH NO. I decided that my only option was to scale the eight foot high metal gates WITH MY BIKE OVER MY SHOULDER and drop down the other side. Fortunately (and quite inexplicably), I managed to accomplish such an unnecessary feat without falling and hurting myself.

Once inside the house, I said hello, locked up my bike in the lounge (why?) and all the while tried to disguise the fact that I was UTTERLY hammered (despite the muddy, blood-stained clothes I was wearing and the reak of alcohol) so I bid them goodnight and headed upstairs to bed.

Nowadays things have obviously moved on. Gone is the bicycle, gone are the long school hours and gone are the Saturday nights getting wrecked after sport. In its place is a routine called work. Leave house, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. Repeat.

On Friday night, it was eight o'clock, it was dark and I was coming home after a long day's work. In order to park my car, I needed to turn right across a queue of traffic waiting to negotiate a set of traffic lights. Fortunately, the town planners had the sense to write the words 'KEEP CLEAR' on the road where all the traffic was, so accessing the junction I needed did not cause a problem. Unfortunately the bus driver did not share that sense and parked his bus half way across the sign, thus leaving a small gap between his arse end and the sensible car behind.

As I approached, I was indicating right to turn into my road, behind the bus. So I was effectively cutting through the line of stationary traffic using the 'keep clear' sign to it's full benefit. I slowly pulled across the traffic and into my road. All of a sudden there was an almighty BANG and the car bumped a couple of times. "What the bloody hell was that?" I questioned, looking swiftly into my rear view mirror to see if I'd perhaps clipped the front end of the car waiting patiently outside the 'keep clear' box. But there was nothing there. Maybe I'd caught the kerb and the suspension had broken? Surely not? But something had happened and something was wrong.

And then I saw it. As I glanced into my rear view mirror once more in a desperate attempt to solve the mystery, it became clear what had just occurred. For there, pointing skywards, ticking loudly and slowing spinning to a halt was a tyre. A tyre with spokes. I shifted my eyes, the tyre was attached to some metal. A BIKE!

I quickly threw the car into a safe stopping place and got out. Not knowing what to expect, it was a relief to see the cyclist walking/staggering towards me admitting his guilt. "It's my fault, it's my fault, I'm so sorry" he said as we shook hands. "It's ok" I replied, thankful that the guy was ok. "Are you alright?" I enquired, which he was - a bit shaken, but more embarrassed about his error and worried about the damage to my car than anything else. So I checked my car under the dim light of a street-lamp and all seemed ok.

"Is the car ok?" the cyclist tentatively asked, seemingly fearful that I would deteriorate into some sort of rage and demand hundreds of pounds off him in damages. "The car looks fine" I replied, having checked the front wing and the passenger door, "the main thing is that you are ok". The cyclist confirmed he was ok and we parted company - him a bit distressed by what had happened and me shaking with shock and relief.

In the morning when I assessed the damage in better light, I noticed rubber tyre marks running down the side of the car - black streaks stretching horizontally across the car's bodywork. The cyclist must have gone straight into the front wing, come off the bike and scraped the tyre along the length of my car. Fortunately for him, the front wing is made of a light, bendy plastic called noryl and not hard steel/aluminium so his helmet-less bonce was spared a pasting.

When I was a cyclist, I wore a helmet, a fluorescent banner and I had lights on each end of the bike. I always stopped at traffic lights and junctions and rarely sneaked up the inside of cars waiting in queues. After all, the highway code clearly states the rules and rules are there for a reason, right?

Posted by jonola14 at October 16, 2005 09:39 PM

Posted by: Wibbler at October 25, 2005 10:31 PM

Posted by: Jonola at October 25, 2005 11:20 PM